G - Miguel Angel Dorelo -Giselle Aronson - Saurio

Texto en español en Quñimicamente impuro: "G".

Traducido al inglés por Alexandra Jamieson Barreiro.

In the beginning you seemed unreachable. You were standing as in a pedestal, an authentic Greek goddess. I used to look at you from below and always saw you: hieratic, undaunted, and brilliant.
One day I dared to come close to you stretching my hands out, willing to touch you. I saw you coming towards me, trembling, as if you were getting out of balance. And all I thought I knew about you fell apart in that brief instant.
"Head trauma" the doctor said. "You were lucky that bronze statuette didn’t kill you".

Publicado en Heliconia Flash Fiction and Short Stories

Miguel Angel Dorelo
Giselle Aronson
Saurio

What can you do but go watch a film? - Saurio

Texto en español en SINERGIA: "¿Qué se puede hacer, salvo ver películas?"

Traducido al inglés por Daniel W. Koon.

"Run for cover and dig some trenches". That was the first thing I said. Literally. I can't remember anything else I ever said before that. It was the first thing I said.
The first thing with respect to what? Good question. "First" is a word that requires other, subsequent terms in order to make any sense. Okay, it was the first thing with respect to everything, in absolute terms. There was no previous that came before it; it was the starting point for everything I said. Yeah, yeah, I know, you find it hard to swallow, that "Run for cover and dig some trenches" was absolutely the very first thing I said. You're smart to doubt my word, since the phrase itself obviously implies a previous use of language, and that contradicts the claim that it was absolutely the first thing I said. No, it's not like the joke about the talking dog who speaks its first words only after it's finally got something to say. I really don't recall ever having said anything before that, even though I do recall doing things before that. I even remember an earlier thought I had had. "The dead all have Kirlian eyes". That was my first thought. Again, literally. And in absolute terms, too. Same deal. I don't recall having thought anything else before that, even though I remember having done things before that. Although, strangely enough, I don't recall what was absolutely the first thing I ever did.
What do these phrases mean, if in fact they mean anything at all? Obviously the first one is an order both to run for cover and to dig some trenches, by which one might assume that the orders were given in the context of some military action. That would be relatively correct -- at least when I said it in 1871 in Paris and in 1916 at the Battle of the Somme, but I also said it at a picnic in Tigre de Buenos Aires in the Spring of 1962 and I said it once in 1368 while I was getting plastered in "Chufreteiro" Casandulfes' tavern. It is also likely that I said it in 2215, when I acquired a 74% stake in Unimonic Corp. of Cydonia, but I'm not 100% sure of that. All right, all right, I know it sounds funny that something uttered at least five times and in five different centuries could be any kind of a first. That occasion in 1368 ought to be the first, but it isn't. No more than any of the other four, or the other three, since I have my doubts about that memory from 2215. Each of them is absolutely the first time.
Yes, I know it's strange. I have a hard time believing it myself, but still, that's the way it is. Maybe we'll find out later why that is. Or maybe not. Be patient and you may be rewarded. Or maybe not. That's the risk you have to take.
Right now I'm thinking about what "Run for cover and dig some trenches" means, aside from the obvious. Or "The dead all have Kirlian eyes." That one's much easier, even though you'd think it was the other way around. It means that the dead perceive reality as though seen through a Kirlian camera. Obviously a silly sentence. Kirlian photography is just some kind of studio trick. No more meaningful than a double exposure or adding some other special effect either before or after the exposure. Still, the pseudoscientific quacks have convinced the world that it allows them to capture one's soul or aura or something. And that's what's so attactive about the pretentious, semipoetic noir of "The dead all have Kirlian eyes". I don't know why it popped into my head, but it did. And that was my very first thought. I don't remember the circumstances or the day that it happened, just like I don't remember whether my next thought was "The dead all have ouija ears." I just remember that that was my first thought. Literally.
Did anyone run for cover? Did they dig trenches? I don't know. Somebody probably carried it out my order when I said it in a military context, although I don't think they were digging trenches during the Paris Commune. More like they were putting up barricades. Should I have said "Run for cover and put up some barricades"? Maybe, but now I have my doubts. Just like I have my doubts about the sequence of events. Or of the events of the sequence, ha! It would make more sense to dig some trenches or to put up some barricades and then to run for cover. I don't know. I just realized that I know absolutely nothing at all about war or about the military. But this does not erase the fact that I said it in the context of two armed conflicts: one in 1916 and the other in 1871. Curious, absurd, illogical, but that's how I remember it.
Memory's a funny thing, if I may say so in passing. It's not absolutely clear that what you remember is what objectively occurred as opposed to a narrative construction that the mind pieces together from factual elements, subjective perception and fantasy. You could say the same for reality. How real is reality? How much fiction is there to it? Is reality something objective or is it a cultural construct? All right, all right, I know, I'm sounding like a two-bit postmodernist philosopher; you got me there. And it's deliberate. I wanted to say it, just to see how far you'd let me ramble before you started doubting my words. Those words and these words, because maybe I was on the level earlier and now I'm pulling your leg. Reality is probably a construct, after all, even though that idea's been overused by intellectual snobs. Or probably reality is something independent of the observer. Or, more likely, it's a little bit objective and a little bit subjective. Maybe the universe exists because somebody finally showed up and observed it several billion years after the Big Bang and detected the residual background radiation left over from the blast, and that 's what made it real. Yep, that could be it. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter to me, and that's what matters. Right now I'd like to focus on other things that are popping into my memory.
Now I'm remembering a shed, a hovel, the slats of its walls riddled with bullet holes. I'm armed and ready to fight to the death. This is all going on in 1978 in the Louisiana bayous and in 1897 in the Patagonian desert. In 1978 the FBI has me surrounded and in 1897 it's the army. I don't remember whether I die. Probably yes, probably no. Depends. Sometimes my memories end right at the moment that I'm running out of my hiding place, guns a blazin', sometimes they continue, with me escaping. Both times, my escape ends in some part of southern Mexico, probably between Chiapas and Tapachulas. There, too, I'm in a precarious wooden structure and the Federales have me surrounded. I'm armed and ready to fight to the death. I don't recall why I don't remember this as a third version of the events. Or a fourth, since it happens in both 1986 and 1912. Maybe it's because being surrounded in Mexico is the consequence of having been previously surrounded in Louisiana and in Patagonia. Makes sense. At least it usually does, I mean when the siege of 1986 is the consequence of 1978 and the one in 1912 is the result of 1897. It doesn't make nearly as much sense when the one in 1986 is the result of the one from 1897 and the one in 1912 the result of 1978. Still, that's the causal sequence, and logic simply flies out the window when confronted with anything that solid.
Another memory, also from 1978 and almost certainly from the same day as my being surrounded by the FBI, has me driving a double-tractor trailer rig from Batouri to Garoua. That's in Cameroon, in case you didn't know. This is a memory in which nothing happens. And by "nothing" I mean nothing remotely like being surrounded by heavily armed troops. More or less the same things happen that happen to any other trucker in the world: traffic jams, detours, falling asleep at the wheel, that kind of thing. I don't die. In fact, I keep working as a trucker for eighteen more years. In 1993, as I arrive in Akonolinga, the thought, "The dead all have Kirlian eyes," pops into my head, and then I realize that it's absolutely my first thought ever. And as I'm telling you this I notice that I can finally recall the circumstances and the date on which I had this thought. What a strange thing memory is! When you want to remember something, you can't, and then when you want to forget it, there it is, clear as day. Or not. Depends. What I continue to not understand is why the thought, "The dead all have Kirlian eyes," pops into my head and how a phrase that complex can be my absolutely first thought. One would imagine that an old truckdriver in Cameroon must have had some other, earlier thoughts, however trivial or insignificant they might have been. And yet, no. In absolute terms it is my very first thought. Now, if we're talking about the relative terms of the chronological sequence of my existence as a Cameroonian truckdriver, that's another matter. And that brings us to the crux of the matter. But first I want to share another memory with you.
I am a Sufi master crossing the desert with a group of my disciples. I could also be a Taoist priest, a Zen monk, an Achomawi shaman, a Gnostic hermit or a Hindu guru. In other words, I am all of these people. But the year and the name of the desert (or of the moor, forest or steppe) that I am crossing with my disciples don't matter. So let's stick with the Sufi master. We cross the desert, our trip takes many days, and finally our provisions are running out. Behind an enormous dune we find an oasis. But it's an unusual one: in addition to water there are springs of wine, honeyed water, beer, corn liquor and lemonade, and marvelous fruits hanging from the trees, enough to satisfy one's hunger for months. Still, I order my disciples to keep walking, and despite their protests, we continue on. Several hours later some hetaeras approach from their monastery-brothel to greet us. My disciples start to run towards them but I stop them and order them to continue on our path. On and on we march, passing chests of treasure poking out from the underneath the sand, glistening with jewels, dinars and precious stones. Once again my disciples try to approach them, but I persuade them to continue our journey. Later we are intercepted by hundreds of fierce bandits. I recognize their leader. It is the monstrous Haroun ibn Chavoush al-Yarak Kafa, villain of many a horrific tale. Apparently we have stumbled upon his lair. The bandits prepare to slaughter us. I fall on my knees and beg for mercy. I tell Haroun ibn Chavoush al-Yarak Kafa that if he spares our lives we will lead him to a place filled with unimaginable treasures. Apparently my words convince him.
We return, bound in chains, escorted by the fierce bandits. When they see the treasures they go wild, loading up their saddlebags with jewels and coins. They untie us, give us water and food, and then they force us to carry the chests back to their lair. Once all the riches are in their possession they prepare to slaughter us. Again I plead for our lives, and I promise to take them to a place full of beautiful courtesans eager to take them to whole new levels of erotic pleasure They believe me, and we head toward the monastery-brothel.
The fierce bandits satisfy their baser appetites, and many of them lie spent, exhausted. Some of them accuse us of having brought them to these dissolute women to sap their strength, and so they try to kill us. I beg once more for our lives, dispelling any suspicions about our intentions, and I promise to bring them to a marvelous oasis where they can stuff themselves with food and drink. Haroun ibn Chavoush al-Yarak Kafa trusts my words and all of us -- bandits, prostitutes and hermits -- head for the oasis. There the cruel delinquents stuff themselves with the finest foods and liquors in an inexhaustible Rabelaisian buffet, until they lie unconscious, in various stages of drunken stupor and heartburn. It is at this precise moment that I order my disciples and the prostitutes to slit the thugs' throats. We march to the nearest city, carrying the disembodied heads, and the caliph repays us handsomely for having defeated the cruelest and most despised villain who has ever defiled the country. We are toasted as heroes, and we are offered prominent positions in the court.
There is no lesson to be learned from this story, however much its structure begs us to find one. There is something instinctive, culturally instinctive, that convinces us that every story has a moral, and that after having read or heard it we have learned something. But that's not true. We are simply trying to attach a purpose and narrative structure to everything. We want to believe that what happens to us happens for some purpose, that actions are more than just actions.
For example, I say "Run for cover and dig some trenches". I know that this is the very first thing I've ever spoken and that its originality is absolute: it's the first thing with respect to everything. That should be enough for me, and yet I want to know more. Why did I say it? Does it mean anything? Does it make sense? Or is it merely a sequence of seven more or less related words that are ordered in a form sufficiently similar to what grammar dictates? Surely, it evokes something more than what each of the individual words suggest. One reads "Run for cover and dig some trenches" and imagines both an earlier and a later context. The particulars of this context will depend on the specific individual, but everyone who hears or reads it imagines a battle, a heroic clash, maybe a struggle for freedom. Not a picnic in Tigre de Buenos Aires. Not Martian capitalism. Although possibly the drunkenness of a villager at the end of the Middle Ages. After all, it might involve a soldier drowning his memories of the horrors of war.
Or "The dead all have Kirlian eyes". Wow! It sounds so... heavy.... poetic... Not something that an old truckdriver in Cameroon would say. Or a Malay fisherman from the 4th Century, for that matter. It's something that would sound good coming from the lips of some metaphysical detective, probably one blessed with extrasensory powers, who is investigating a meaningless robbery from a small local appliance factory when he stumbles onto a story involving, among other things, the bones of a black, drug-addicted, gay boxer who was once a great champion but who has fallen on hard times and who finally dies alone, his corpse robbed from the morgue by three drunks who drag it through all the dockside bars, showing it off for pennies a pop. Now that's a good story. It deserves to be told just as much as the story of a 13th Century bumpkin who tries to steal a sacred relic from an alchemist only to find himself spirited away on a journey beyond time and space. These stories are interesting, these memories of mine that pop into my head in this blackness that I find myself in. No, not "blackness". That would imply the existence of the sense of sight, if only by contrast, and right now I don't sense anything. I don't know if you can imagine the most absolute visual privation, but if you can, then you will have some idea of my present state. But "present" is another word that requires further temporal context to make any sense. Present with respect to what? Simple: with respect to the act of your reading this text. It is my present state this very second, as you read this sentence. Yes, it sounds confusing, but that's the way it is. How soon is "now"? Is it "now" yet? For example, right now one sees a star -- any star, the name's not important, it doesn't matter whether it exists -- a star 100,000 light years away. The observer's "now" is not the observed star's "now", which is a "now" 100,000 years in the past. Maybe the real star's "now" coincides with the observer's, assuming that the star still exists after 100,000 years and has not exploded as stars tend to do eventually. Oddly enough, because no time has elapsed for the photon that left 100,000 years before "now": for that photon it is always "now". And the "now" of the observer at the start of this clumsy explanation is not the same as the "now" of the very same observer right now. Yes, yes, I know, I'm rambling, I'm boring you, and you don't understand a word of this. Nor do I. Don't worry. But I had to get that off my chest.
So how did I arrive at this state of abject sensory privation? Does it even matter? Would you like me to tell you that it was a failed experiment involving a time machine and that I found myself trapped in an extradimensional bubble outside the space-time continuum? Okay, I'll say it. I'm lying, but I'll say it: I was testing a time machine of my own invention, one of the parts failed, I lost control of my ship, it left its four-dimensional trajectory and I landed in a proto-universe, in a pre-Big Bang state. Happy now?
And although I'm lying, there is a bit of truth to it. If I put quotation marks around some of the words in the preceding explanation, to suggest that they're metaphors or metonyms (It's hard to tell the difference in this case.) of things that cannot be expressed in the language of beings trapped in space-time, perhaps I would be telling the truth of how I came to be in this state. But maybe not the whole truth. "Arriving" implies that you find yourelf at a destination point which you reached from some other departure point, and maybe I did not arrive here; maybe I was already here and I left for another quote-unquote "place", because not only is it a point but it's also a time. Perhaps this is only a transit point. I don't know, my thoughts on this point are a jumble. Hah, my thoughts about other points are too. My memory is a haze of tiny atoms of existence, a few molecules that come and go via Brownian motion and drift into my consciousness, becoming reality through my perception.
And that's why. No, not "that's why". What I want to say is not the result of what I just said. Or rather it's the result of what I said before, but what I said before is also the result of what I'm about to say. Like a drawing of the yin and yang, ha! A begets B and B begets A. And A contains some of B and B some of A. And that's why "that's why" is not the best choice of words, even though it's partly true. However, I'll continue: it has nothing to do with memories popping into my mind from different reincarnations. At least not reincarnations in the usual sense of the word, with some person dying and his soul moving on to another person who is born later. There is no such thing as reincarnation, not the way most people imagine it. Simply because that would imply that there's some purpose to existence, even if reincarnation were nothing more than the momentary reallocation of resources for a period of time infinitely shorter than the eternal lifespan of the soul. Such things don't exist -- souls -- and at any rate, there's no reason to recycle them. Let alone that business of karma. Ha! As if anyone cared enough about the behavior of some fleeting, imperfect souls to establish some system of rewards and punishments based on how much or how little they had obeyed some arbitrary and incoherent set of rules of behavior! And rewarding or punishing them for all Eternity in places built for just that purpose? Who would dream up such rubbish? Only people who need an illusion of narrative structure in which all things happen for a reason, in which every action has its reaction, in which there is some purpose. And in which souls exist.
Unfortunately, those things -- souls -- don't exist. Consciousness: that exists. Of course it does, but it rarely survives even one single lifetime. And sometimes, like me, it lasts a little bit longer, even if spread out over several lives. I have here the central point, the explanation for all the paradoxes that keep popping up in this text. And that is why "Run for cover and dig some trenches" might be precisely the first thing I said, despite it being a phrase that would require a previous command of the language and my remembering having said it for the first time on at least five different occasions. Now I understand. It's also clear to me how one chronological event can be the consequence of a later one, or how I can remember two independent events happening in different places but at the very same moment. One -- me -- comes and goes, one moment being this person, from this era, from this location in this universe, and then becoming this other person, from this other era, from this other location in this other universe, and so on and so forth, leaving the person-era-location-universe to others like oneself, or even to one's self, but to a different one's self from another now, possibly a later one, possibly an earlier one, maybe a simultaneous one. One doesn't know. Just like one never knows what is this nothingness[?]in which I find myself now[?] One doesn't know, or answer, or even care.
One simply remembers.
What else can one do?

Saurio

L’ultima cena (Director’s Cut) - Saurio

Texto en español en Químicamente impuro: "La última cena".

Traducido al italiano por Stefano Valente.

Quando Gesù disse che il pane era il suo corpo gli sembrò una cosa bella, un sacrificio umano elevato a simbolo era una buona idea.
 Quando disse che il vino era il suo sangue dubitò un po', non suonava molto kosher, come si dice, ma va bene, in fondo la legge mosaica era un tantino assurda per quel che riguardava l'alimentazione.
 Quando disse che la birra era la sua pipì gli sembrò uno scherzo di cattivo gusto, ma ormai comunque erano tutti mezzo ubriachi, si capisce che uno se ne esca con delle stupidaggini, messia o non messia.
 Fu quando Gesù afferrò il bicchiere col latte che Giuda seppe che cosa doveva fare.

Saurio

All that is solid melts into air - Saurio

Texto en español en Breves no tan breves: "Todo lo sólido se desvanece en el aire"

Traducido al inglés

It started as one of those viral emails that within hours spread throughout the world. And then it continued spreading virally but by word of mouth. The slogan was simple: to overcome social inequality people should refuse to work and to consume more than is strictly necessary for subsistence. Doing so, the evil system would fall. No, it wasn’t just another strike, here there was no complaints, no demands, it was simply refusing to work.
It worked.
Not immediately, of course, employers, union hierarchies and the other gears of the system reacted and repressed the protesters. But people, thanks to the viral message, were not afraid and defended themselves. Many died, of course, but as they were majority, they finally were victorious. In addition, the system needed for consumers, and if no one consumed, the production of goods lost all meaning.
That's how the system fell.
Victory achieved, the sensible thing should have been to distribute the wealth equally. But wealth had lost its value in a unconsumerist world, and the very act of sharing was working, so that millions of goods that once had been coveted were abandoned and forgotten.
When food and the accumulated resources ran out people faced with another problem: providing new resources for self-support was working; and working was simply to revive the system.
That's how people died.
Someone wrote that if a group of chimpanzees were given computers and enough time, one of them would end up writing the works of Shakespeare. But nobody thought that before this happened he could write a viral email and send it.
That's how we became the dominant species on the planet.

Saurio

The way of Weescoosa - Saurio

Texto en español en Axxón: "El camino de Weescosa".

Traducción de Daniel W. Koon

1. The Legacy of William Roderick Necken

Mercifully, the mind has many mechanisms to prevent it from piecing together all the hair-raising contents that are locked within it. Ignorance is a blessing bestowed upon the human race, who lie bathed in the black waters of forgetfulness and ignorance of the arcane abysms beyond our imaginations, swirling in the infinite ether of a universe that has preceded us by many eons and that harbors terrors that have driven to death and madness those who have even dared to gaze upon its mysteries. The sciences, rapt in their egotistical, vain ways, serving middling governments and corrupt tyrants, have pushed the study of these cryptic arcana to the fringes, thus forestalling further injury. But lamentably the day will come when all the power and the horror that lies beyond human comprehension shall tempt the ambitious hearts of small and miserable men -- and woe betide us on that day ! -- cornering us into such a feeble position against such terrible odds that the threats of eternal punishment heaped upon us by the whore of Rome when we give free rein to the intrinsic passions of our dual nature will seem in comparison like a picnic on a tropical island where native beauties attend us with the servility appropriate to climes where no civilized being would dream of trying to survive on his own.
Only theosophy has had any inkling, in this decadent new Dark Age, of the majestic grandeur of the cosmic cycle in which our world and our race are nothing more than fleeting incidents, mere eddies of existence in terrifying seas where lie forever those who are not dead, the hair-raising ancient races that would freeze our blood if we did not seek refuge in the bland optimism that the mundane charms of this world afford us. But it was not this esoteric discipline that offered me a fleeting glimpse of these prohibited sights, that made me shudder and that drove me mad, that tormented my dreams and stiffened my vigilance. No, it was misfortune that forced me to confront this terrible revelation that lies waiting behind the doorstep to the Infinite and Incommensurable.
It all began several years ago, when I came to call at the deathbed of my uncle, Professor William Roderick Necken, Honorary Doctor of Sledic languages at the Polysemic University of Ffwagnell, Kismet, Horde Island. My uncle was an expert in ancient inscriptions of that mysterious and ubiquitous lost civilization, and the most prestigious archeological authorities of the world consulted him constantly. In his ninety-third year, a dark and unexpected illness had compromised his unbreakable iron health and finally sent him to an early grave. Officially it was declared that a negro sailor that my uncle had met in his walks through the docks of Oldhaven had infected him with the illness that made him abandon this vale of tears. It should come as no surprise, given the infinity of infections and plagues transported by members of this simian race, but the fact that the doctors could find no true physical cause for my uncle’s surprising death and that they found themselves rapt in the most absolute perplexity, as well as the startling glimpses I was later vouchsafed, led me to wonder whether it was truly a sickness, or something else entirely, that had so irrevocably truncated the career of the illustrious professor William Roderick Necken.
When I learned that my uncle had fallen gravely ill and that he had asked after me, I ran posthaste to the clinic where he was lodged. I had not had any contact with him in years and it surprised me that he would request my presence. “Perhaps he wished to leave me his collection of rare Sumerian cherubim... or his hundreds of Horish ceremonial octahedra... or his exquisite Dothic capitals,” I thought ambitiously whilst I climbed the steps of the hospital.
The tableau that awaited me could not have been more agonizing. The poor old man was a mere shadow of the William Roderick Necken that I had known during those summers that my mother brought me to the family farm in Highgrass, New Hempshire: skinny, pale, emaciated, with a feverish shine in his opaque, nearly blind eyes.
“Ah, Howard, you’ve arrived,” came the barely audible wisp of a voice. “Come here, my son.... I mean... my nephew... because you are my nephew and not my son. Correct, Howard?”
“Yes, uncle, I’m your sister Margaret’s son.”
“And how does that guarantee that I’m not your father! You could be my son! You need to take a paternity test! Nurse! Nurse!”
“Uncle, Uncle, calm down. There’s no need for any kind of paternity test...”
“Ah, yes, of course!” he interrupts. “I’d forgotten that your religion forbids you from having your blood extracted.”
“What religion, Uncle? I’m a scientist! I’m an atheist!”
“What? Are you not a Dolphitic Orthodox?”
“No, Uncle, that’s cousin Nathan. Harriet’s son.”
“Oh, yes, of course, that’s right. That useless Nathan... I always said that that scatterbrain would end up like that, tangled up in sects. And his mother’s to blame, for dressing him like a girl till he was twelve and breastfeeding him till he was eighteen. No excuse for it! We are heading irreversibly toward a new Dark Age in which Superstition will once more vanquish Reason! Woe to us, living under the iron rule of Ignorance and the contempt toward everything that is Beautiful and Balanced! They should have never allowed immigration to this country! Harmony reigned before those dirty Italians came with their sinister glances and their shrill voices, filling the streets with their coloured posters written in an almost animal languages and incomprehensible signs and hurling themselves at us, the original colonists having arrived in this Promised Land from the Blessed Isles!”
Exhausted by the effort that his righteous and stirring diatribe had summoned up, my uncle fell heavily onto his bed, his eyes glassy and dull.
“No! Uncle! You’ve died! And without leaving a will!”
A bony claw with a force unusual for a moribund old man grabbed me by the neck and pulled me over toward his toothless, liver-spotted mouth.
“Silence, you fool, you albatross! My time has not yet come.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought that...”
“Enough. Let us waste no more time. Let us concentrate on our business, for my minutes are numbered and The Grim Reaper draws nigh, his abhorred scythe poised to sever, once and for all, the vital breath still remaining in me after the cruel agony I’ve been made to suffer from this infectious disease which that mongrel dark demon has infected me with, degenerate like all those of his race, on that warm night when the full moon invited all of us in Oldhaven to indiscriminate pleasure without care for the morn, when even the ocean breeze seemed to murmur ‘Carpe Diem. Carpe Diem.’ Oh, how prodigal humankind can be when the light of the moon enraptures us! And how correct the hate that the Italian Futurists feel toward this astronomical manifestation! Remembering that ill-fated night in which my destiny was irrevocably sealed and I was set upon the path leading my life to its inexorable end makes my blood boil!”
As he spoke this last part, a thought seemed to unsettle his mind. My uncle was rummaging among his sheets and then, as fast as lightning, he handed me a small test tube blood.
“Take this, Howard, and run a paternity test to settle once and for all our parental relation.”
“But, Uncle, there’s no need...”
“There is! There is! I’m telling you there is!”
“I mean there’s no need to use blood to establish paternity. A single hair will do.”
With the same promptness with which he had handed it to me, my uncle seized the test tube from my hands and flung it angrily against the wall of the room, uprooted a tuft of hairs from his head and another from mine and began to yell out loud: “Nurse, nurse! Come quickly! An urgent paternity test, as my life is coming ever closer to an end!”
No sooner had the nurse taken the two clumps of hair than my uncle fell into an absolute silence. Fourteen hours later, once it had been scientifically confirmed in writing that the relation between us was strictly avuncular, he turned to me with a feeble voice that seemed to come from the Great Beyond and said, “Dear Howard Philipe Zealskill, beloved nephew, almost a son to me, I want you to pu... Are you certain you’re not my son?”
“Yes, Uncle, yes, we just proved that. Nine doctors, seven biochemists and three independent laboratories have certified that I am your nephew.”
“Good. Good. Dear Howard Philipe Zealskill, beloved nephew, almost a son to me, I want you to put my papers in order...”
But these were the last words ever uttered by the illustrious, celebrated, dignified, illustrious, talented and distinguished Professor William Roderick Necker, Honorary Doctor of Sledic Languages of the Polysemic University of Ffwagnell, Kismet, Horde Island.
Days later, after reading my uncle’s will, in which he donated his entire collection of rare Sumerian cherubim, his hundreds of Horish ceremonial octahedra, his exquisite Dothic capitals and his copious fortune to my cousin Nathan, I made my way toward the Necken Mansion to put the professor’s papers in order. When I arrived, the cruel and terrifying enormity of the request of my prestigious relative became apparent to me, as the floors of the house were covered with a thick carpet of papers of every type: silk, metallized, wooden, construction, posterboard, satin, illustration, scripts, onionskin, buttered, recycled, blotter paper, tissue paper, etc., all of them crammed on both sides with the hurried and confused scrawlings of my uncle, a stubborn old man who refused to use glasses despite going nearly blind or to accept the use of any writing implements save for the old goose quill and the dilapidated, bottomless inkwell of his childhood.
Not being one of those who betray the promises made on the deathbed of an agonized relative, I resigned myself to the Herculean task of putting my uncle’s papers in order. Oh, that I had never done so! I would have lived a happy life, ignorant of all the horrors that rustle in the darkness and that lie in wait beyond the mountains of madness!

2. The clay bas-relief

One morning in March of 1925, according to my uncle’s papers, a thin, dark young man of a neurotic and excited aspect approached the door of the Necken Mansion. Professor Necken, moved by the disheveled and pathetic figure that shivered at the doorway to his residence, ushered him inside whilst the young man extended a card that stated that he was a certain Philip Charles Lithman. My uncle recognized the filthy young man as the younger son of an excellent New England family, descended from the original Plymouth colonists, which was slightly known to him. Lithman had abandoned the comfortable social position that his family offered him, pursuing the vain fantasy of a bohemian lifestyle in which he could exploit his undisputable artistic genius and give free rein to his eccentricities and his psychic hypersentitivity.
Master Lithman pulled from his briefcase a still-fresh clay bas-relief that shewed an abominable figure of extreme repugnance, one that made Professor Necken fall to his knees and vomit from terror. Then, when his host had regathered his wits, the young man shewed him another clay bas-relief, the real reason for his presence in the house. Lithman was in vital need of my uncle’s archeological knowledge to decipher the hieroglyphics that adorned the tablet. My uncle dryly replied that the evident age of the tablet ruled out any possible relation with the archeological sciences. The youth’s replica aroused my uncle’s interest, enough to convince him to be kind enough to give this young man a moment of his attention:
“It’s new, indeed,” Lithman told him, “for I made it last night in a dream of strange cities; and dreams are older than the brooding Tyre, or the contemplative Sphynx, or the garden-girdled Babylonia.”
“But I don’t believe they are as old as the presumptuous Wolah Bamor, the superb S’rrad G’mamo, or the diamond-rimmed Zidoria...”
“Oh, yes, yes, they are that ancient and more. I would insist that they soared in eras before the capricious Leshp, the tentative Xirulia, or the orange-blossom-perfumed Geropafrusia.”
“Wow,” my uncle exclaimed. “Those are old dreams indeed!”
“No, they are not old. They are ancient, antediluvian, centenarian, hoary. Mere language is inadequate to describe the age of these dreams.”
“How can you say that? One would imagine that they are the product of the subconscious mind playing with the memories of our waking experiences, recast in a symbolic language that any professional competent and versed in the theories of the esteemed professors like Sigmund Freud, Carl Gustav Jung, Jacques Lacan or Erich von Boorthenhausen could decipher!”
“But that’s not true, my beloved Professor Necken. They are windows to the most far-flung worlds, to prehuman epochs in which the unimaginable Horrors arriving from inconceivably distant stars lorded over the planet with Their thunderous hymns and their degenerate priests, strolling through Herculean cities that defied all Euclidean geometry and before which other visions were mere pale folkloric representations, even the most fevered visions of the German expressionist filmmakers or the happy pop tunes of those young musicians who fled to hippie California in the 1960s from Shreveport, Louisiana to pursue a dream of artistic freedom far from the iron censorship of the Bible Belt, a dream of corrupting the youth and -- why not? -- children, with Satanic messages hidden in their music.”
I have had occasion to see the damnable tablet... and I would wish not to have done so, since only a sickly fantasy could conceive of a similar blasphemous horror, defying all that is good and sacred in this world. It shewed four monsters, four gigantic anthromorphs, three of them with heads that appeared to be those of lobsters or crayfish or some other chitinous crustacean of that species, with hands or claws appropriate to its monstrousness. The fourth had a starfish as a head and hid its depraved hands. The four were dressed in collarless corduroy Pierre Cardin jackets with matching pants, and stood in a pose of casual indolence, as if mocking the pettiness of our race, as if telling us that when they awoke from their eternal dream they were going to rip us to shreds like scraps of straw trapped between the sharp-edged blades of an atomic-powered thresher. It was something repugnant to see, and it was only the promise I had made to my uncle that forced me to continue my reading of this unholy story.
The night previous to the visit of the eccentric artist, a slight earthquake tremor, the most violent that had ever shaken Horde Island in the last seven millennia, had excited Lithman’s impressionable mind as he slept, his eyes red with fear and his brow pearly with amber sweat. For the first time in his life he dreamed of a Cyclopean city of enormous monoliths that oozed a greenish horror, slimy, revolting and rubbery like Vileness Fats, and from the depths of the earth came a voice that was not one voice but two voices, and in reality, it was not even voices but the confused sensations that my fantasy and my desire to impose coherence on a vision perilous to the sanity of my mind had converted into the howling of Siamese twin wrestlers, wailing in an almost unpronounceable language that Weescoosa knew the way.
The mention of this otherworldly and almost unpronounceable name froze my uncle’s blood, and memories gushed forth. Much later he would blame his advanced age and the cocktail of psychotropics and amphetamines that he had ingested hours earlier for his not immediately recognizing the depraved hieroglyphics that adorned the clay tablet.
The following days Lithman became an assiduous visitor to the Necken Mansion. His dreams became daily more vivid and apocalyptic; maddening tales in somber colours, plagued by melancholy details and repellant characters. In all of them he found himself lost inside a deformed city populated by one-armed dwarves who were besieged first by Atomic Shopping Carts and then by delinquents dressed up as cuts of meat. Men dressed as Spanish penitents with newsprint tunics danced a macabre dance through the streets and the monstrous crustacean-men from the hair-raising clay bas-relief squashed insect-legged swastikas. Suddenly a violent wind ravaged everything and transported Lithman to a snowy and chilly polar landscape where he was observed by four mysterious characters dressed in evening jacket and top hats with eyeballs for heads. On one occasion, Lithman watched with passive horror as his little finger changed into a thin and greenish snake that grew and grew until it turned into an object of adoration for certain vestal virgins that wore no more clothing than a small loincloth of marine blue corduroy with furious orange backstitching. Sticky liquids oozed from the walls of this degenerate city, coursed heavily through the Cyclopean, dark, dank rocks of the walls, and the dreadful name of Weescoosa was spoken again and again by the underground double voice that cried its unintelligible orders in enigmatic and sensitive thuds, perhaps in a language of a primitive species, with an organ of phonation better adapted than the human one for pronouncing the fatal and blasphemous sounds. What they most often repeated, beside the invocation of Weescoosa and the knowledge of the road, were those that said "Tlef'yeht Satsuj d'kool Seugnot Yllems" and "Eno'morf eye'na Kculp, Bmud era'hsif, Yadot tac'a Kcik, tac'a Kcik, tac'a Kcik".
Lithman always woke screaming from these dreams, covered in sweat, bile, faeces, urine and vomit, trembling like a leaf in a storm, having lost all remembrance of the importance of living. On one occasion his family even had to lock him up in a hospice when Philip had awoken convinced that he was the guitarist in an English country and western band and was in a hurry because he had arrived four hours late to a concert.
Just as surprisingly as they had come, on April 2, at 03:01:07 in the afternoon, Lithman’s hallucinating onirical flights left forever, replaced by banal stories in which, for example, he ran after a line 29 bus for hours only to discover that, in reality, it was not a passenger microbus but my cousin Nathan with his fire-red dyed hair.
My uncle stopped writing down Lithman’s dreams and set out to interview whatever persons he could find regarding their dreams during the febrile period between March 1 and April 2. Besides the loss of several teeth, a couple of cracked ribs and a detached retina (the aristocracy and the traditional New England “salt of the earth” did not consider the attitude of my uncle to be behavior appropriate to a gentleman and thus responded to his impertinence in the most barbaric manner imaginable), my uncle collected the dreamtime stories of hundreds of artists, poets, theosophists and various indigents wandering through the same fanciful and blood-curdling cities that Lithman had described. The sense of dread was the same in all of them, but the reactions of the dreamers had been various: a young architect from Yttria, NJ, had tried to commit suicide by devouring horse manure laced with insecticide; a nervous woman from Fylfot, MA declared herself to have been fertilized by one of the crab-men; an old Indian from Lummenapathawaskananyomkippurannothawashaskankan, CO, convinced that the Great Spirit had returned to North America, crisscrossed the prairie, seeking the distinguished traveler in every hotel in the country.
My uncle also compiled press cuttings from all over the world, documenting that similar manifestations had occurred in other locations: an epidemic of voodoo orgies emerging in Haiti and negroes rampaging in Africa; American officials stationed in the Philippines having a certain difficulty with some tribes (the nature of these difficulties had not been reported in the press, but, apparently the natives had risen up and had attacked the military detachments to the cry of “Dunga-dunga or death.”) and on the night of March 22 the police of New York were harassed by hysterical transvestites. The West of Ireland is full of wild rumour and in the Paris spring salon a painter named Dolmancé presented his blasphemous “Landscape That I Caught out of the Corner of my Eye While I was Explaining My Philosophy to the Chevalier de Mirvel, to Madame Saint Ange and to the Sweet and Innocent Eugenie de Mistival”. In reality, the cuttings that my uncle had compiled presented an exasperating panorama that suggested terrifying conclusions. Fortunately, my rational nature led me to discount them entirely, to abandon the Necken Mansion in search of fresh air, and to take a pause in my reading of the unearthly papers.

3. Inspector N. Senada’s report

The hour was quite late when I returned to the Necken Mansion, and I really did not find myself with sufficient strength to continue in my reading of my uncle’s odious papers and their repugnant discoveries of sacrileges beyond the realm of Reason and Understanding. In my wanderings through the gardens I happened upon Sally Seelick, whom I had not seen since we were children. Immediately we started to reminisce about those summers in our infancy, when we swam carefree in the Tuskaboost River, little thinking about what the future could or should provide, simply laughing and splashing each other in the brisk muddy waters, and this recollection tempted us to -- why not? -- recreate those happy moments afresh. Of course, the years pass in vain and it was not the same as when we were a couple of little children: Sally had transformed completely into a woman and I was a true stallion, so that very soon the innocent childish frolicking was becoming more and more heated and when we finally noticed what was happening I was already rounding third base and sliding headfirst into home. For the fifth time.
Nor did I read my uncle’s writings for the following eight days. Sally told our mutual friends from childhood about our meeting and I spent those long eight workdays reacquainting myself with Sarah Wilcox, Molly Snodgrass, Sue Flansburgh-Linnell, Jeannette Barthelmie, Chrissy Hennesy, Annette Washouette, Mary-Ashley-Kate Allurensen, Tabitha Hannaghan, Anna-Livia Plurabella, Jennifer Lofish, Tammy Faye Majors, Agatha Ffwagtington, Camilla Lobsterpot-Lardling, Uma Theremin, Theresa Finn MacCumhaill, Christina Eagler, Brittany Pierce, Ashley Lipsync, Jessica Lipsync, Beatrice Page, Harriet O'Hara, Laura Onmaddens, Aalisha Coonasscutie and Wilma Foxstonecraft.
Finally, so much nostalgia, good memories and catching up left my prostate red hot and I decided to recuse myself in the library to read my uncle’s damnable papers. The young women continued refreshing their memories in the Hall of Armour of the Necken Mansion for several weeks thereafter (at least that’s what the servants who were invited to reminisce with them told me). For that reason, late on the morning of the ninth day I could resume, with horror and fascination, my reading of the horrifying tale.
Several years before young Lithman contacted my uncle, the professor had been invited to the XVIII Fortnightly Meeting of the American Archeological Society, held in St. Earl, MI. The nature of the talks and the professor’s active participation in the heated debates resulted in a long queue of laymen and women approaching him with a motley assortment of questions. Among this assemblage anxious to divine Necken’s expert opinion on the most varied topics there stood a mysterious man, dressed in an enormous overcoat and black glasses, who spoke halting English. This individual told him that his name was N. Senada, that he had been born in Bavaria, and that he was inspector of police in Chalatanooga County, WY. He immediately shewed him a soapy stone statuette, repugnant and grotesque, that appeared to have been constructed with mucous left out for eons to putrefy in the sun, an object whose origin no one had been able to ascertain with exactitude. The idol, fetish, amulet, talisman, effigy, mascot, relic, statuette, idolette, emblem, figurine, image, totem or taboo had been expropriated four months earlier in the forested bogs of the Mohawkaia desert, in the course of a hunting expedition against a presumed Satanomessianic voodoo cult. So singular and odious were the rites that the subnormal mongrel beings of the cult practiced that the police understood immediately (to be exact, within five hours, twenty-three minutes and forty-two seconds) that they were facing a wholly overlooked sect infinitely more perverse than a Satanomessianic voodoo cult, infinitely more perverse than even the Perverted Antichurch for Perverse Debauchery or the Save our Sodomite Priests Foundation.
The confused and incredible stories from the retarded negroid prisoners, extracted using the most sophisticated and modern torture devices, told them nothing of the possible origin of the abominable statuette. And so Senada ran hastily to the XVIII Fortnightly Meeting of the American Archeological Society, with the hope that the eminent wise men would freely give answer to the enigma that the tiny idol had presented him.
My uncle, surrounded by his most eminent colleagues, carefully studied the fateful cult object. It involved, as some of you might imagine, a tridimensional representation of the three crustacean-men and the starfish-man that Master Lithman would dream of years later. The quartet gave off an aura of aberrant vitality, reinforced by the provocative indolence with which the monstrosities were posing, and it was subtly terrifying because of the total imprecision of its origin, since none of the eminences there assembled could unravel the secret of the statuette.
Only one of the wise men, the distinguished and now vanished Alexander Barming Vachss, Professor of Anthropometry at the Mercurial University of Dukellington and explorer of significant renown, could find a certain familiarity in this profane group of sculpted figures.
Forty years earlier, during one of his trips through Greenland, Vachss had made contact with a degenerate tribe of Esquimaux -- so degenerate that they constructed their igloos with palm leaves, wore light Hawaiian shirts in multiple, gaudy colours, adorned their Mongoloid heads with thick dreadlocks and fed themselves on fruits and coconuts -- whose religion, a singular form of the demoniac cults, had affected him with the brutality of its rituals. It was not that they were particularly bloody or repulsive, but the mere act of witnessing it was enough to leave a perturbing discomfort and sense of spiritual nakedness in the observer, a profound sensation that all the veils of social convention and routine had fallen from their eyes and that one found oneself confronted by the absurd misery of existence. The other tribes feared this tribe and avoided them, and referred to them with a shudder of horror and repugnance. Several times Vachss had heard the story of the angekok who had been so infuriated that he used his magic to invoke a terrible marine serpent to devour a hunter that had called his shamanic skills into question, but he had never given the story much credit. Finding himself before this degenerate tribe he learned that the legend not only was true but that he was face to face with the descendants of the actors in that chilling drama. The other tribes told with horror how ever since that incident, the power of the angekok had grown stronger and stronger and that he had introduced the rest of his tribe to an unknown religion that dated from more ancient epochs, long before the birth of the world. This religion demanded constant human sacrifices to four supreme demons or tornasuk, headed up by a fetish around which the savages were to dance when the Aurora Borealis glistened highest above the icy cliffs. This fetish, which Vachs viewed before his eyes, was a crude bas-relief of stone with four abominable figures similar to those visible in the repugnant idol that N. Senada now wielded.
This story froze the blood of all those present, who chattered their teeth merely thinking of the horrors that might awaken on account of their inquisitive and curious scientific minds. And so they asked Vachss and N. Senada if they remembered the chants that the acolytes of the repellant idols intoned. “Oh, yes!” they exclaimed, almost in unison, and then they recited that terrifying, apocalyptic and terrible chant, of slimy and unpronounceable syllables designed for a nonhumanoid phonation apparatus:
Lleh fo Slleps Citsuac
Senob Nekorb Tiperced Deelb 'na
Nopu Sknio Gnid'uxe Te'a Sey
N. Senada had been luckier than Vachss and, after hours of enduring the introduction of famished rats up his sphincter, several fellow prisoners had revealed to him the supreme meaning of their fetid supplications:
Seated in her country home
The princess Weescoosa waits,
she who knows the way.
These prisoners also revealed to him the nature of their abominable cult. Lamentably my uncle recorded this entire section of the tale on a roll of toilet paper, the absorbency of which conspired to smudge all traces of ink. I apologize to the reader for how fragmentary and confusing the paragraphs that follow are, but I found it impossible to build a coherent tale from Professor Necken’s notes:

1. Long before Humanity existed, monstrous visitors from beyond the stars arrived on our planet as part of the ongoing upheavals in the eternal battle between Good and Evil and dedicated themselves to pillaging and provoking whatever ecological catastrophes they could contrive. According to this document, it was not a meteorite that caused the extinction of the dinosaurs but the indiscriminate hunting of the grand thundering lizards by these reprobate beings of pure energy. Finally the Visitors grew bored and left, never to return again.
2. Eons later, a young Topewatta maiden named Weescoosa woke all her tribe, screaming that she knew the way, that they should leave everything and follow her.
3. Many centuries after Weescoosa’s Crusade, a brutal storm forced some miners who called themselves the “Moles” to abandon their subterranean city to go and live in the city of some vain superficial burghers, known as “Chubs” in the legend. Very soon war broke out between the Moles and Chubs, the Moles won and the language of the Chubs was banned. A couple of generations later a young man, known as Kula Bocca, of mixed Mole-Chub blood, set off a cultural revolution to recover the lost traditional values of the Chubs.
4. Weescoosa appeared, in the form of a spirit, to a pair of Siamese twins, one a man, the other a woman, although nobody knew which was which, that were touring the Bible Belt in a crusade of faith healing and she transmitted a message to them. The dreadful condition of the text allows me to retrieve Weescoosa’s message in only a fragmentary form: “pleasure and pain are [...] that slightly out of focus spin around us [...] that everything that give us pleasure also give us pain to measure it by, [...] all our lives we love illusion, neatly [...] between confusion and the need of [...] we are alive.”
5. The shrimp-men are sons of the sons of the sons of the star-born Ancient Ones.
The sacrilegious work of the mad Arab Nadef el Senoun was also mentioned, the forbidden book called the Negronominalcon” in the Occident and known in the Arab world as “Ayna al Hammam”, “Kiram tu Coseh Nanat” or “Kus Umak Ja-hosh”. My uncle placed special emphasis on the much-discussed couplet:
He is not dead which still shews signs of cerebral activity,
He possesses a beating heart and breathes normally. He’s just sleeping. Shhh.
According to the Chinese, those dirty yellow demons with their oblique gazes and opium breath, there is in this repulsive and blasphemous strophe a hidden meaning that the initiate could interpret in many diverse manners. Many of these very diverse manners can be read in, for example, “The Right Path of the Copper Egregore of the Hermetic Occult in search of the Fifth Essence” by the Polish theosophist Zboczeniec Gówienko or in “The Axial Races: Those who preceded Humanity traced the Route to Transcendence” by Madame Irina Mandavoshka or even in “The Wisdom of the Ancients was much Wiser than the Wisdom of the Moderns” by the seeress Claire Voyant. Professor Necken deduced that these unworldly words spoke of the dreadful Princess Weescoosa and of her cohort of lobster-men, of how these unnamed abominations were lying in wait for their moment to return to take dominion of the Earth, devouring all of Humanity with their Vileness.
Here, luckily, I finished up my uncle’s papers. Feverish and trembling before the otherworldly perspective that his notes augured for the future of the World and of Civilization, in which Reason and Progress were helpless against the nefarious shadows that threaten from those miserable and immoral stone dwellings, I let myself fall into a chair, a bottle of rum in one hand and a demijohn of red wine in the other.
But that unsociable Lady and that unfathomable Spectre, with eyes so horrible that not even the gods themselves dare to look upon them for fear of losing themselves in their emptiness, had another surprise in store for me.

4. The castaway’s dementia

I was disposed to drink myself into forgetting the impudent and putrid secrets that my uncle’s papers had revealed to me when several heavy and insistent blows made the main door of the Mansion Necken tremble. Given that the servants were occupied in reminiscences with my childhood friends, I had no choice but to go and see who or what was threatening to knock down the door with its fists.
As I opened the door I found myself face to face with a man with the look of a cadaver, his gray hair disheveled and his clothes shabby. The storm that was looming over the house further accentuated the repugnant appearance of this vaguely human individual.
“My name is Gustav Spånnbøg and I am a sailor,” he said, his voice lifeless and dull. “I wish to see Professor Necken. Immediately.”
“The professor has died,” I replied, while I tried to close the door on such a repulsive, beggarly face.
“I suppose so. The lives of all those who dare to gaze at the sibylline and inscrutable secrets that lay beneath Time and Space are exposed to great peril each and every day.”
“The professor has died, victim of a dark and unexpected illness that he contracted from a degenerate black sailor in the port of Oldhaven,” I blurted in his face.
“Are you certain? Weescoosa is very powerful and vengeful with those who dare to gaze at the sibylline and inscrutable secrets that lay beneath Time and Space...”
As I heard mention of that abominable name my heart gave a skip and my intestines threatened to empty out right then and there. Stupefied, with little more choice than a golem, I let the filthy seawolf pass.
“My name is Gustav Spånnbøg and I am a sailor,” he repeated as he sat down on a sofa and emptied the contents of a barrel of amontillado down his gullet. “I used to be Second Mate of the Bovary, a merchant ship that plied the seas between Valparaíso and Auckland. Commanded by the experienced Captain Charbonneau we set sail the 20th of February 1925, without the least suspicion of the misfortunes that awaited us on the high seas. March 1st a storm diverted us considerably from our course and the 23d of that month we were intercepted by The Allergic, a sailing ship crewed by Kanakas and half-castes with the look of condemned men. Captain Charbonneau ignored all orders to swerve away from those thugs and we were attacked with all the simian fury these cowardly mongrels could muster. Our ship was scuttled and our captain and another seven men perished in battle, but in the end the repulsive delinquents, whose tiny faces and their prominent jaws betrayed them as clumsy and dimwitted, were defeated and killed. Being the highest ranking surviving officer, I took my diminished crew in the direction from whence The Allergic had come, with the desire of divining the obscure and esoteric motive that had pushed those miserable imitations of humans to block our path. Thus we arrived at a tiny island that did not appear on any map, a mountain of green rock covered with algae that stuck out imposingly over the ocean at W. Longitude 49° 9' S. Latitude 126° 43'. Over the summit of this abominable mountain arose a Cyclopean architecture that could be nothing other than the tangible manifestation of the ultimate terror of the universe, since there lay the great Weescoosa and her companions, hidden in some green dank vaults from whence they broadcast, after incalculable centuries, thoughts that terrorized sensitive men and called imperiously to the faithful to come on a pilgrimage of liberation and restoration. At the moment I did not know all this, but God well knows that I have since seen plenty!”
After saying this, Spånnbøg suddenly stood up, as though impelled by invisible springs, and with two puffs lit his pipe of mother of pearl and sea spray. His gaze denoted madness and connoted terror, and the growing urine stain spreading along his trousers seemed to emphasize what his eyes screamed wordlessly.
“When I contemplate the volume of everything that can hide within the depths of the ocean, I feel a desire to die without a second’s hesitation. My companions and I traveled in terror of the cosmic majesty of that moist Babylon inhabited by demons, suspecting instinctively that it was neither of this world nor of any other similar one. Bjorn Håndjager, our impressionable and imaginative cabin boy, said that it resembled the palaces he had seen when he visited Ganymede, the famous moon of Jupiter and the famous cupbearer of Zeus, son of King Tros, who gave his name to the no less famous city of Troy. We all laughed at his innocence. It was well known that Bjorn had barely reached Phobos in his interplanetary travels!” As he said this, Spånnbøg let loose a cacophonous guffaw that resounded through the hallways of the Mansion Necken. “In short, the nonsense of little boys. We climbed through the titanic and slippery steps of the monstrous acropolis, steps that no human being could have built, unless one considers the colossal funerary monuments built by the Egyptians, Aztecs and Farranacos. The sun itself seemed to deform when viewed through the polarized miasmas that oozed from this underwater perversion, and the moon flickered, repulsed by the touch of the septic effluvia that rose from between the offending joints of the iniquitous mucilaginous blocks of granite. Our ascent was truly disgusting and we stopped continuously to vomit and even to void explosive spurts of diarrhea that slipped slowly, stickily through the ignominious steps of supernatural putrefaction.
“Bernardo Soares, our disquiet Portuguese helmsman, was the first to arrive at the base of the monolith. With his cries, now hoarse, he shewed us what he had just discovered: a Cyclopean solid stone door in which some otherworldly demons with crayfish heads and collarless jackets were mocking everything that is sacred in this world. Tamborini and Mosca, the two assistants on board, began to press the vile door, initially without success and finally with result, so that slowly and haltingly the execrable compartment was sliding inward. Our curiosity overcame our fear and we pushed ourselves through into the utter darkness. The odour that emanated from those fetid abysms was unbearable. Our cook, the affable Brammer, a man of fine ear and good palate, thought he could hear a splashing, aethereal sound. “It’s probably just that river of liquid shit that we let loose as we scaled through the ignominious steps of supernatural putrefaction,” Tamborini joked, with the natural grace that only Italian peasants can pull off. But we were unable to laugh, for in that moment the monsters appeared.
“Four repulsive semihuman figures, three with lobster heads and the forth with the head of a starfish, were making their way in their immensity through the dark opening, laughing and intoning an ode of sad resonance and tiresomeness:
T'chu T'chu Gamm T'chu Gamm Gamm T'chu T'chu
T'chu T'chu Gamm T'chu Gamm Gamm T'chu T'chu
T'chu T'chu Gamm T'chu Gamm Gamm T'chu T'chu
S'makk S'makk S'makk
“Our blood froze over to hear those satanic verses. It was like spending a season in Hell. Brammer and Soares died right there, a deformed rictus of horror on each man’s face, and little Bjorn disappeared in the darkness and never reappeared to sight. Summoning what little courage I still possessed, I ordered my men to flee as far as possible from that corrupted entrance of that Tartarus before whom even Pluto, Satan, and Beelzebub trembled.”
After a dramatic pause, in which my heart seemed to be beating next to my uvula, Spånnbøg continued his tale:
“The chitinous claws of the monstrosities cut short the lives of Tamborini, Mosca and Braden. Gratenkut, the boilerman, who were gobbled upwards at an angle that insisted on behaving like it were acute despite hundreds of angry protractors trying to convince it that it was obtuse. Only Cramouille and I reached the coast and were able to set foot in the boat. Luckily, the boilers of our steamship had remained lit and the anchor had not been lowered, so that it took us a few seconds of feverish rushing up and down between wheel gears, pistons, transmission and camshafts to put The Allergic in motion. With a hallucinatory slowness, between the distended horrors of that ineffable and unspeakable scene, the propeller began to thrash the waters with a gyrating counter-clockwise motion that propelled the ramshackle boat through the undulating waters of the sea. Meanwhile, on the deadly shore, the four monsters and the unearthly Weescoosa emitted their inarticulate screams, like Polypheme cursing Ulysses’ fleet ship or Ixion when he was flogged by Hermes whilst tied to a wheel of fire in the heavens or Icarus as he felt the burning wax melting and slipping along his naked back. But, more audacious than the gigantic legendary Cyclops, the abominable creatures entered the waters, launching a new offensive with several blows that raised enormous waves. It was in that moment, perhaps to reinforce the Homeric reference, that their heads changed from invertebrate marine creatures to cylopean eyeballs in top hats and they began to fling rocks while they repeated, over and over, in foul-smelling voices, a mocking sea shanty:
The quick brain drained the main
And the ship a goin' down me mates
the ship she's a goin' down
the ship she's a goin' down
down, down, down, down.
“One of these rocks must have hit The Allergic, since I awoke the next month in The Observant, naked and feverish, my consciousness a blur, babbling confused stories of infinite liquid abominations of whirling spectral walls, dizzying rides through reeling universes on a comet’s tail and hysterical plunges from the pit to the moon and then back again to the pit, all wrapped in the chorus of guffaws from the Ancient Ones and of the arthropod-clawed mocking imps of Tartarus. The ship’s doctor judged the survivors delirious, floating as we were on a rowing boat under the burning rays of the sun, smoking an enormous rope of hemp and accompanied by Cramouille’s rotting corpse, but, to tell the truth, who cares what he says? I know that what I saw was the truth.”
“I believe you, Spånnbøg. I believe you. Your story is too horrifying to be an invention, and, to be frank, the research that my uncle made of the loathsome, ominous and repulsive Weescoosa cult confirms it.”
“Ah! What a relief! I thought I must be going mad!” he exclaimed with an ecstatic expression whilst a thin trail of slobber fell from his lips to his urine-soaked trousers. Then he wedged an arquebus into his toothless mouth and blew his brains out.
Moved still by the fatal scene I had just witnessed, I ran to my uncle’s writing desk in search of a ream of paper and of writing implements and set to work editing this present story as a test of my own common sense, wherein has been pieced together what I hope will never again be pieced together, whatever it may signify. My nerves will fly apart, one by one, like epileptic eels in a contrary magnetic field. I have peered at the most blood-curding secrets that the universe has to offer and now even the simple little flowers of the field and the dark swallows that turn your balconies into their nests seem poisoned to me. I have decided to put an end to my life and follow Professor Necken and Gustav Spånnbøg on their journeys to the Great Beyond. I know too much of the cult of Weescoosa to be allowed to continue to live. Weescoosa and her abominable confederates still exist, buried in their impious underwater mansion, and their ministers in this world continue to dance, and sing and kill in the most distant corners of the globe around infectious menhirs adorned with blaphemous pictograms. I do not want to think of the horror that shall be called down upon our cities when that nefarious day arrives!
Good-bye, cruel world. Carry on without me.

Thanks to H. P. Lovecraft and to The Residents
for looking the other way and not complaining
about this indiscriminate mash-up.
And a bearhug to all the rest
of the intertextualized multitude here.
Live happily.

Saurio